


The Wolf and the Snake

by In_love_with_writing002



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Autumn, Basilisk - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Posthumous fantasy, nice days, too bad Geralt’s dead, what happens after a Witcher dies?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22635502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_love_with_writing002/pseuds/In_love_with_writing002
Summary: It was a bright and sunny day in the autumn forest, and Geralt of Rivia was bleeding out.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 41





	The Wolf and the Snake

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta-ed, all mistakes are mine.

_ “Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them.” _

_ -George Eliot _

  
It was a bright and sunny day in the autumn forest, and Geralt of Rivia was bleeding out.

This wasn’t a new occurrence for him, really. The weather was a change though, which was nice. The lack of healing potions and anti venom was not as nice. He stared blankly at the gap in the trees where the sun warmed his blood-soaked face, unable to move or speak. What a nice day to die.

Geralt was laid low by a basilisk.

He’d thought, before, that it was just a cockatrice, based on what the alderman had told him, but after attempting to track the thing and winding up back in its territory, and becoming aware of the very  _ different _ sounds from the trees, he was in too deep to turn back. He was in over his head, and he hadn’t taken the right potions to fight the thing. So, here he was, venom in his bloodstream making him lie still, agony lighting up every nerve ending, and still, the warmth of the sun seeped through. He couldn’t even close his eyes— not even at the mercy of unconsciousness. It was a tailor-made kind of limbo, perfect for a Witcher like him. Alive because of his slow heart rate, body still, alone save for the ants beginning to realize they could not in fact, go underneath his ankle, and the ever present sun, shining down on him.

He had hoped that it would go differently.

He had hoped that he’d have been cut down by a magnificent beast like a dragon, who took advantage of his kindness-softened heart and tricked him into becoming a meal, or that he’d go down fighting in someone’s war that he believed in. Not this lowly job, with the promise of money if he came back alive with his target’s head. The target was dead, yes, its head pierced through with a silver blade, separated from its body by at least five yards, but there would be no reward for him on the other side.

He wondered if someone would find him.

Maybe someone would sing a song about him, someday. A song about a wolf and a snake, fighting to the death, and in the end they both died. It was poetic, or something, Geralt had never much been one for songs. But he wouldn’t mind one about him. If only someone had been there to see what happened, if someone had been there to give some up-and-coming bard the whole story— how the basilisk bit him in the thigh, how Geralt had  _ let _ it bite him, so he could cleave the thing’s head off, how the agony had overpowered him in that moment and he couldn’t get a clean cut. How after it died, its body wiggled and slithered until Geralt nearly puked, and he cut its muscle tissue in all the places it was moving so he didn’t have to listen to it while he waited for death. How Geralt had walked until he’d found a nice fallen tree and climbed on, body numb from the venom but enough spite in his bones to get comfortable. He yearned for someone to get the little details. It was nice to speculate, at least.

It would be some idiot early twenty-something looking for a story, on some self-imposed quest for fame. Maybe Geralt would get lucky and they’d have a little talent, but he didn’t expect it. They would hear the whispers of the Witcher in the Woods, who died fighting a cockatrice. There would probably be some myth that one could hear the sounds of their battle on a dark and windy day.

The bard, curious, might venture into the woods to find out for himself, though that would depend on their ambition. There weren’t many songs about Witchers, just stories. Geralt would have been happy with a story, another title to add posthumously to his collection. But this bard, in his fantasy, would enter the wood, and maybe he would have a guide, someone claiming to be unafraid of the stories of the cockatrice.

They would go together, and they’d find a nice forest, teeming with vitality. The bard might make a note of it, that the forest was alive.

They would search for hours until they found the basilisk, and they would be shocked. Maybe they wouldn’t have a name for it. Basilisks were rare, after all. And harder to rhyme than ‘cockatrice.’

They would find the body without a head and then perhaps split up. One person would look for the head, the other for the Witcher who killed it. Because it was obviously dead, the stench alone would clue them in to that. Unless they really were idiots, and cowards, then they might run. Geralt hoped his bard was brave.

The guide would find him first, he decided, and would marvel at the peace in his body, the acceptance. He had decided he wasn’t decayed and rotting at this point— the incoming frost would preserve him.

The bard would find the head, impaled with a stubborn silver sword, and be in awe— yes, it really was dead. But if this was the creature, where was its killer? The bard might think the Witcher was still alive, but no— the guide would call for him.

Then the bard would see him at last, with eyes and senses trained to observe the little things. Where the guide would see a man who had accepted death with grace, the bard would see his stubbornness, his frowning lips, his eyes angry with the world. The bard would see how Geralt had defied his death, how he had placed himself on this fallen tree, fallen like everything else around it, and he would feel something.

Then the wind, which would hold a memory of Geralt’s thoughts, because once he died his imagination had to go somewhere, would pick up, and whisper Geralt’s story, and maybe, just maybe, the bard would weep for him.

**Author's Note:**

> My knowledge of The Witcher is entirely based on the show and some other videos and random Wikipedia articles, so if there’s inaccuracies feel free to let me know!
> 
> Wild to think I wrote this as a break from “On Geralt” and then I talked about poetry anyway.


End file.
